Ordinary People
by Daddy's Wrackspurt Siphons
Summary: So Moriarty is alive and Sherlock is dead: in the end, it was easy. Now the consulting criminal must go back to playing with ordinary people. But caught up in the hype of what he is doing, he doesn't notice the shadow lurking behind him; he doesn't notice a spy following him constantly. And he doesn't realise somebody is tracking his every move with the intention of destroying him.


Moriarty woke up. The first thing he realised was that he was on hard ground and he was very high up. Then he remembered where he was; he was on the hospital roof. Sherlock was dead. Jim had convinced him to sacrifice himself for his friends and the man had actually done it. In the end, it was easy. He was just normal. Like the other people Jim Moriarty would have to go back to playing with. So boring; so ordinary! Apparently, manipulating Kitty Riley had proved a great advantage. Sherlock was dead: oh, my god!

John sat on his armchair in his flat, beside Mrs Hudson, who was on the sofa. They watched TV in silence; John was barely taking in any of it and he highly doubted that the landlady was, either. He didn't, for a moment, believe that Sherlock had been the attention-seeking, manipulative, murderous, heartless monster that everyone thought. This had just been another despicable, nasty, horrible plan of Moriarty's to stop being bored; a distraction. His best friend was dead: oh, my god!

Mrs Hudson looked at the depressed man sitting near her. She wasn't taking in much of what was happening on TV and she highly doubted he was, either. Despite being angry about all the heads and thumbs and weird liquids, neither had brought themselves to get rid of all his stuff, in the faint hope he somehow may still be alive: one last miracle, just for them. But he was dead: Oh, my god!

Greg Lestrade sat in his office, aggrieved. Could Sherlock have really been responsible for all the crimes he was so great at solving? It made logical sense, Greg supposed; and Sherlock was definitely logical. But then again… oh, he just didn't know. He couldn't believe it; he didn't want to believe it. It just didn't equate: oh, my god!

Sally Donovan turned off the hob and poured stringy cheese sauce all over a plate of pasta. She wasn't sure how she felt about Freak being gone. She never liked him; but she didn't hate him. Not until the truth of his amazing crime-solving came to light. So what, he had a brilliant mind and she could never deny that; even to think up such crimes took the intelligence with which he "solved" them. But deep down she knew it was a hoax of James Moriarty's. Could Freak really be dead? Oh, my god!

As for Anderson, he neither knew nor cared about Sherlock Holmes' medical state. He didn't care if Moriarty was the evil one, or if their dear, dead, self-proclaimed "consulting-detective" was the evil one. The man was no longer part of Anderson's life and frankly, that was all that mattered. Why was everyone else making such a big deal over it? So what if he was dead, it didn't matter: oh, my god!

Mycroft lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His brother was dead; his own brother – and it was _his _fault! The thought that he's given Moriarty all this information for the government's sake – for some stupid... some _code. _He couldn't even remember what the hell the thing was; all he knew was that he'd sacrificed his own brother for personal gain and fame. What a bastard he was: oh, my God!

Molly was the only one who knew the truth. Well, apart from a few other morticians and hospital staff. She was at Bart's, working late. She opened her bag to get some food and laughed; a packet of quavers had fallen out – it reminded her of the time he had needed help in the lab. She had been heading for lunch and he told her he'd sorted lunch, removing from his pockets two packets of the very same curly crisps which lay in front of her now. She missed him desperately... and she wasn't sure, but she thought she might even be in love with him: oh, my god!

And hundreds of miles away, on the Scottish borders, Sherlock sat in a café, drinking coffee and carefully planning his next moves. Was Moriarty really dead? How did all his friends feel; did they believe Moriarty's story, or were they convinced of his innocence? But most importantly, how did Mycroft feel? He must be feeling guilty by now; John never hesitated to express his feelings of utmost distaste towards his flat-mate's sibling. If guilt hadn't presented itself alone, surely John would have enforced it? Sherlock smirked and immersed himself in a newspaper.


End file.
